


Third Time's the Charm [An Omen of the Bentley]

by vol_ctrl



Series: The History of Omens [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Angry Aziraphale (Good Omens), Angst, Arguing, Crowley's Bentley (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Heartbreak, Historical, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Manic Crowley, Miracles, Wholesome, angry driving, misleading title, vulnerable crowley, will they won't they
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-06-24 16:44:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19727668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vol_ctrl/pseuds/vol_ctrl
Summary: First a request for holy water, now the acquisition of a death machine on wheels. Where will Crowley's self-destructive spiral lead him?





	1. The First Ride

**Author's Note:**

> It's finally here, kittens - Part 3!
> 
> Now the headcanon is starting to ramp up. You can enjoy this part on its own, but for the full story, start with Part One, An Introduction to Dancing.
> 
> I so enjoyed writing this part.

Though it could hardly be called a time of peace in Great Britain, Crowley’s return to London brought with it a stint of enlightenment and beauty. Fleeting as it was, a certain angel’s gladness that his friend had returned might have had some influence. Alas, humans in further reaches of Europe were not subject to such pleasantness. A great war, the first World War, as it was called, broke out. It had very little to do with the angel and demon residing in SoHo, other than inspiring said angel to make an impulse purchase of a dozen cases of Chateauneuf-du-Pape in the wake of it, lest his supply be interrupted again.

The year is 1926. Fashion is simpler--fewer of those damned buttons a certain demon so despised--and the airwaves are filled with news and music, broadcast all across the nation. Color movies are played at the cinema, and the owner of A. Z. Fell & Co. has finally relented to allow a telephone in his bookshop.

However, his reluctant embrace of cutting edge technology is not always rewarded…

“Oh, angel!”

Aziraphale heard Crowley howling from the street through the doors of the bookshop. Heavens, he did wish Crowley wouldn’t shout that outside his shop.

“Look. At. What. I. Got!” Crowley threw open the shop door and hung there, grinning.

The few patrons in the shop looked around nervously, smiled polite British smiles at each other and averted their gazes.

Aziraphale attempted to placate them with a tight-lipped smile of his own, and hurried to Crowley with a forced calm. “For goodness sake, Crowley. It is broad daylight and you are cavorting like a--”

“Look, angel! Look!” Crowley seemed drunk. It was much too early for that, even for Crowley.

Aziraphale glanced back into the shop and faltered with some kind of explanation for the madman who had burst into his shop. He managed a nervous titter before Crowley dragged him by force out of the shop.

The angel stumbled down the stairs and snatched his arm back from Crowley. “What is the meaning of this!” he snapped, but Crowley wasn’t even paying attention to him.

Crowley sauntered across the pavement with enough swagger to make anyone, mortal, angel, or demon, swoon. Even from behind, Aziraphale found himself blushing. Crowley approached a sleek black machine parked just-so at the curb--just-so that no one could cross from the corner--and ran his hand along its sleek, pristine top. The way he stroked it was so obscene, Aziraphale looked to see if there were any children about.

“Isn’t she  _ beautiful… _ ” he purred, then turned to lean lazily against it. “Eh?”

“Are you  _ drunk _ ?” Aziraphale asked. He didn’t understand. This was what Crowley was hollering about? It was a lovely machine, to be sure, but to register such excitement?

“What?” Crowley faltered. “No! I just bought a car!” With an injured look, he turned and looked apologetically at the Bentley, gently rubbing the finish on the hood with his sleeve, tender as a lover.

Aziraphale opened his mouth, but couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

“Not just any car. A Bentley. 3 ½ litre, inline six, 110 horsepower…” Crowley was stroking it again, each description pronounced as voluptuously as a woman’s measurements.

Now this was just ridiculous. Aziraphale cracked a smile, then laughed outright.

“What!” Crowley shouted back. “She’s bloody brilliant!”

“Yes, my dear.” Aziraphale relented and walked over to inspect the vehicle, hands clasped politely behind his back. “It is quite nice.”

“Let’s go for a ride.” Crowley hunched toward Aziraphale, every fiber of his being vibrating a call to action.

“Wh-what? Now? There are…”

“Oh, c’mon, angel. You don’t even want to sell any books anyway!”

Aziraphale faltered thoughtfully, his head titled. Couldn’t honestly argue with that. But to clear out the shop so unceremoniously, so suddenly…

“Alright,  _ I’ll  _ do it for you.” Crowley said with a generous bow. He marched right back into the shop, and before Aziraphale could do anything, he heard Crowley shouting, “Shop’s closed! Yes, everyone out. There’s uh… gas leak, somethin’.”

Honestly, he didn’t know what to do with Crowley. But he knew he couldn’t bear to be without him. He stood shyly by the Bentley as his attempted patrons bustled out looking quite ruffled.

“This really couldn’t wait?” Aziraphale asked as Crowley approached with a shit-eating grin on his face. It was nice to have his friend back to normal. Things were just as they should be.

“No.” With a snap, the bookshop door slammed closed, nearly catching the hem of a woman’s coat. She toddled with a little shriek down the steps in her kitten heels as the door locked itself, and the sign in the window waved forcefully to ‘closed.’ “We’ve got a race to catch.”

“A race?” Aziraphale’s brow knitted and his hand flinched back from the Bentley’s door. “Surely you don’t mean…”

“Her?” he referred to the Bentley, which briefly confused Aziraphale. He tried to keep up. “No, no, course not. Wouldn’t be much a race, would it?” Crowley’s grin did not reassure him.

Well, so long as they wouldn’t be racing this machine… Aziraphale opened the door. He bent one way, then the other, trying to figure out just how one got into this thing elegantly. Unlike carriages and steam engines, it was so low to the ground, he had to practically crouch…

Meanwhile, Crowley poured himself into the driver’s seat like smoke and wrapped a hand sensuously around the steering wheel. Aziraphale finally made it into the seat, but then required another minute to untuck his coat from under him and straighten himself. By the time he’d settled in, the Bentley was already moving.

Aziraphale gave a little gasp of wonder as Crowley smoothly maneuvered away from the curb and onto the street. The engine purred, smooth and soft, carrying them effortlessly across the street like it was a river. “Remarkable--Crowley! Don’t hit that woman with the pram!” Aziraphale shrieked and braced his hand against the dashboard for dear life; not his, but hers.

Crowley shifted the wheel ever so slightly and threaded between the curb and the startled woman. “Relaaax, angel. This is  _ my  _ car. Wouldn’t risk getting a scratch on it, brand new and all.” Crowley leered at Aziraphale.

Crowley WAS drunk. Drunk on some kind of brand new obsession or love affair. “Do keep your eyes on the road! Please!” His heart was palpitating, skin tingling in anticipation for a split-second miracle to prevent the imminent injury or death this dangerous machine might inflict on any of the poor souls in Crowley’s path.

“Let’s see what this baby can do.” The engine turned from kitten to lioness as Crowley punched the accelerator. The man at the shop had told him it could get up to 90. Crowley knew  _ his  _ Bentley could do better.

“Th-th-that  _ thing  _ is a terror!” Aziraphale shouted as he stumbled out of the car desperately with an accusatory finger pointed at the Bentley. They had reached their destination in record time. He thought his heart would beat right out of his chest, his shoulders heaving as he tried to catch his breath. “Pure demonic terror!”

Crowley slithered out of the driver’s seat and folded his arms on the roof. He stroked the warm lacquered metal with a hurt expression. “You’re  _ my  _ demonic terror…” he cooed to the car.

Aziraphale was somehow disheveled from merely sitting in a fast moving machine. He attempted to straighten out his three piece suit as well as his nerves. “For goodness sake.”

Crowley gave the Bentley a subtle little kiss. His infatuation with his dangerous machine even outshined his concern for Aziraphale’s comfort. It took him the walk around the hood of the car to finally drag his gaze away, and only then registered how disheveled the angel was.

“How did your hair get so out of sorts?” Crowley brushed Aziraphale’s hair into place, his fingers combing past the angel’s brow. His touch seemed to ground Aziraphale’s fluttering, bristling agitation. With a final tug at his lapels, Aziraphale managed an uneasy smile.

“Your driving, my dear,” he said thinly.

“Got us here in one piece. Not a scratch.” He grinned.

It was rare to see Crowley so shamelessly happy about anything. Aziraphale gave in. “I suppose that is  _ technically  _ the case,” he sighed. “And where is ‘here,’ exactly?”

Crowley gave a nod to the large sign above a squat building. Beyond the building there was a massive, open air theater of sorts. “Belle Vue Stadium.”


	2. Off to the Races

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley inadvertently takes Aziraphale on a date. Miracles can happen.

“Ooh, are we going to see a sort of velocipede race?” Aziraphale asked he followed Crowley up to the ticket master.

Crowley cranked a look at the angel. “Surprised you didn’t call it a _dandy horse._ ” He bypassed the ticket master and walked directly to the entrance, slipping two admission tickets from his sleek suit. Aziraphale almost protested that they should get their tickets properly, but Crowley left him not a moment to say so.

“It’s called a _bicycle_ now, angel, keep up with the times,” he drawled. “And no. This race is a whole different _animal_ ,” he said with a grin of questionable morality.

As they stepped into the stadium, Aziraphale saw that the track looked empty through the crowds of people standing around it. Crowley led the way, slinking through the crowd to the railing overlooking the lowered track. The competitors were not people, not a bicycle or a runner in sight, but in fact lean greyhound dogs that looked built for loping on the wind.

“Humans! They come up with the wildest thing to call sport.” Crowley shook his head. “Get a bunch a’ dogs, run very fast around, fast as they can after a rabbit or something, and guess the winner. Sport!”

“Oh, no, they’re not going to sacrifice a poor rabbit for sport, are they? That’s barbaric. Like the fox hunts…”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “No, you silly soft thing. These clever Americans have created some kind of… false rabbit. An un-rabbit.” He wasn’t so cruel as to take Aziraphale to watch one of “God’s precious creatures” get slaughtered for entertainment. Not in this century, anyway. He remembered what happened when they attended a bull fight in Spain, 1468. Everyone was having a lovely time except for the blond sap sniffling beside him.

Aziraphale relaxed. “Well, isn’t this interesting. I’ve never seen such a thing.”

“Just opened up last month.” The crowd was impressive for such a new sport.

The angel glanced at Crowley while the demon seemed to be looking around for something in the stadium. It felt nice, Crowley taking him out for once. It was still usually up to him to call up Crowley, ostensibly to discuss his latest acquisition of a book of prophecies, or to debate about who would take care of what in the latest bit of work dictated from their respective directions. But really, Aziraphale felt compelled to check up on Crowley.

Crowley had never been especially open with him about what went on in that head of his, especially when it had really mattered. Crowley had gone to absurd, even painful, lengths to protect him; the least he could do was keep an eye on him.

Especially after his singular, dire request, some fifty years ago. Holy water… Aziraphale shuddered to think--and so he put it well out of his mind, just as he hoped Crowley would. 

“Ah, there it is.” Crowley took Aziraphale by the sleeve and led him toward a booth set into the arena, around which the crowd was densely gathered. There was a smattering of well-dressed men, but more so there were working class men in slightly worn clothes. There was a strike going on, after all. But it brought Aziraphale some pleasure to see them, too, enjoying some sport.

“What’s this, then?”

“The best part - here, you wage your hard earned money on which _dog_ is going to win.” Crowley barked a laugh at the absurdity of it.

“Gambling? Really, Crowley!” Of course it was too good to be true that this would be some light-hearted sport merely for the fun of it. Now he felt quite bad about all the unworking working-class men jockeying up to place their bets. He frowned.

“Oh, c’mon. It’s all in good fun.” Crowley jostled Aziraphale, but couldn’t get a rise out of him. “Fine. You just go find us a seat.”

Aziraphale felt a bit put out that this innocent outing, of course, had some nefarious element to it. So much for a nice ‘date.’ But Crowley was in good spirits. Perhaps a bit manic. Aziraphale wandered around the track a bit, taking in the modern stadium. It must’ve been twice the size of the Globe Theater. Humans truly were miraculous in the things they would build.

He was still admiring the immensity of it from the railing beside the track when Crowley found him, peace offering in hand.

“I’ve just invented a new drink,” he said proudly.

“Let me guess - the ‘Bentley’?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley’s excited grin snapped shut. “How’d you know?”

Aziraphale grinned and nodded to the other cocktail he held. “And that?”

“The Ladies’ Blush.” Crowley presented the drink to Aziraphale with a flourish. Aziraphale did, in fact, blush.

“Did you come up with that one, too?” Aziraphale asked as he took the glass in his dainty grip.

“No. Otherwise, I would’ve called it the Angel’s Blush.”

It became even more difficult for Aziraphale to control the heat of his face. “What are we drinking to?” Aziraphale asked. A faint breeze graced the stadium, some relief from the midsummer heat, and Crowley’s charm. He didn’t often find himself at outdoor events. It was a nice change of pace, even if he was getting a bit sweaty.

Crowley lifted his red-amber cocktail, the recently christened Bently, with a suggestive look.

“Other than your death machine. You’re supposed to drink to life and prosperity, not driving fast and… and death.”

“Are you sure you’ve got that right?”

Aziraphale sighed with a weary smile.

“Alright, then, angel. What do _you_ want us to drink to?”

Aziraphale’s smile grew wistful. He wanted to drink to _them,_ to this, to Crowley’s good spirits and pleasant, unexpected company. But he was careful about their relationship these days. Yes, he checked in on Crowley more than strictly necessary, and yes he made his social calls, but he was careful not to make it… hurt. Crowley’s words at that cafe in Paris haunted him. _Won’t it hurt?_ And he had promised… promised it would be different.

And it was. Crowley had put a definitive rift between them by disappearing for over a hundred years without so much as a quick check in to assure his best friend he hadn’t been wiped off the face of the planet. _That_ hurt so much more than seeing him again.

Aziraphale had locked those thoughts, those memories, deep away. One had to compartmentalize with so many thousands of years of memories, so it was quite easy to do. Ignoring the natural chemistry that bloomed between them time and time again--less so.

“Angel, I’m getting thirsty.” Crowley had that look, that _Now don’t get trapped up in your head, angel,_ look.

“Oh. Sorry. Yes. Let’s… drink to the fine weather--and fine sport! Gambling aside…” He gave Crowley a brief look of reproach and then clinked his glass with the demon’s brightly.

“All that thought, and that’s what you came up with?” Crowley teased.

Aziraphale muted himself with a sip of his drink. “Oh, this is lovely! What _is_ this?”

“Alcohol. Some more alcohol mixed in. ‘Nother American import,” Crowley preened. It was a rare occasion that he was the one showing off some new fancy to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale failed to notice his beaming delight as he met Crowley’s shaded eyes. “This is nice. You taking _me_ out for once, even if I almost discorporated getting here…” Aziraphale even laughed. “Thank you.”

Crowley had been running on pure, manic adrenaline since he’d seen that Bentley sitting on the showroom floor. The very sight of it lit a fire inside him-- _That_ must _be mine._ The whole time the salesman chatted his ear off about the _robustness_ of its design and the _reputation_ of its quality and other _R_ words that Crowley didn’t bother registering, he’d run his hands along the sleek lines and perfect finish. Before the salesman had even gotten to the selling bit, Crowley told him he’d take it.

Take it he had, without a drop of petrol in the tank, right out of the garage. There was only one place he could go--straight to show it off to his best friend. Without a thought as to what he was doing, he had inadvertently taken Aziraphale on a date. Possibly the first date he’d taken the angel out on… ever.

It didn’t hit him until he was blinded by that radiance. Had it really been three hundred years since Aziraphale smiled at him like that?

“Course.” Crowley looked out toward the track, leaning his lean hip against the railing and taking a long sip of his drink. “Was coming here, anyway. Got the Bentley, and…”

“Oh, I think it’s starting.”

Thank Satan. Crowley was unprepared for the situation he’d put himself in. They had been dancing--bad metaphor. Not dancing. Un-dancing. The opposite of dancing. They had been _circling_ around each other more carefully since reuniting in the pits of the Bastille. Meeting in the same usual places. St. James park to feed the ducks. The old bandstand for a stroll. If they drank together, it was at The Ritz. In public. Not alone.

And Aziraphale was right. It was different. Not bad different, but different. They didn’t talk about that fateful year where they had tempted fate. They didn’t talk about not speaking for one hundred and forty-three years. They didn’t talk about how no axe had fallen, no consequences had arisen from the Omniscient. And they certainly didn’t talk about the hair-thin line between what _had been_ and what _was now._

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale, who was transfixed by the electric energy of the whip fast competitors racing around the track, and wondered what was going on in that pretty blond head. Had he meant to smile at him like that?

Bugger.

“Which one did you bet on?” Aziraphale asked. The excitement was contagious, what with the crowds cheering and the announcer rambling on about the ranks.

“The fast one. Bullet Billy.” Crowley smirked, then glanced at Aziraphale side-long again. This time his reptilian eye caught Aziraphale’s shining blue ones out of the corner of his glasses. “Those poor strikers bet on the underdog. All they could afford. It would be a _miracle_ if that one--there, Dolly Delilah--” he gestured with his glass, “pulled ahead. Given the odds, they’d make a fortune.” Crowley stood up straighter and crossed his arms over his chest. “And I’d be in the hole a clean grand. Well, not really in the hole. Sort of a slight dip.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. Far be it for him to endorse gambling, but… Those poor strikers. He straightened up himself, shoulder to shoulder with the demon and beamed. With a little flourish of his hand, he gave Dolly the swiftness of the wind, while a mysterious counter gust seemed to sway the leaders off course.

As Delilah dashed unbelievably across the finish line, the stadium roared and the announcer bellowed, and the angel and demon quietly clinked glasses in victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN HISTORICAL FACT:  
> The Bentley is INDEED a real, historical cocktail from this time period. (Ya'll, I do so much historical research it's plain silly.)  
> "[Jerry Thomas] made more delicate classic drinks too, such as... the Bentley, to celebrate Bentley Motors’ Le Mans rally victory, made with Calvados, Dubonnet and Peychaud’s bitters."  
> I actually screamed when I found this. The Ladies' Blush is also attributed to this American bartender.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Follow me on Twitter @vol_ctrl to get notified the second a chapter drops.


	3. Reckless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale mulls over what-ifs and whys.

“I’m never getting in that car again, Crowley! Mark my words!” Aziraphale tripped out of the Bentley and onto the sidewalk. He turned to glare at Crowley.

The demon leaned over the passenger seat toward the open window. “Says you.” The streetlights glinted off his glasses, glittering nigh the same color as the eyes that hid behind them. “Ciao, angel.”

With a roar, the Bentley careened down the lane.

Aziraphale was still shaking as he unlocked the bookshop and returned to the tranquility of his domain. He closed the door with a sigh and shivered. Dreadful terrifying thing, that Bentley. He couldn’t understand what possessed Crowley to acquire such a thing.

The angel doffed his outer coat as he walked toward the back room, and hung it on a waiting coat rack. All that hair-raising driving, being very nearly discorporated--no matter how much Crowley insisted it was all perfect safe--and being out and about had left him quite warm. Even in his own home, it was unusual for him not to be fully dressed. After today’s excitement, he needed to untie his bow tie and loosen his collar.

On his desk were several stacks of books, organized by some system only he could comprehend. He calmed his nerves by sorting through them; his nightly ritual to discern which book he would curl up with. Moving his hand slowly over the covers, around the care-worn edges did much to soothe him. A bit of wine wouldn’t hurt, either.

After pouring himself a glass of wine, Aziraphale settled into his favorite chair with his chosen book. He sighed, finally stretching out his legs and relishing the feeling of the chair welcoming him to its familiar embrace. His glasses were never far out of reach, and put him in that serene mindset he only found by himself these days.

Of course, tonight of all nights, peace would elude him. His eyes were doing their best to read, but his mind was far, far away, racing away with Crowley driving like a maniac through the streets of London. What was he thinking?

He was being reckless. The thought made Aziraphale’s fingers tighten on the pages. He shifted, propping an elbow on the chair to rest his knuckles against his lips and mash away the frown of concern. 

Reckless… Wasn’t Crowley always reckless? That was the demon in him. But to be  _ so  _ reckless.

And yet… Crowley wasn’t reckless. If anything, he was calculated. At times, lazy. Indifferent to the whims of his superiors. His lack of recklessness had led to the dissolve of… what they had. Pretend as he might, Crowley held a great deal of concern where their arrangement was involved.

The only truly reckless thing Crowley had done… Holy water. Asking  _ him  _ for holy water! They’d got in quite a row, and for good reason. It wouldn’t just discorporate him, it would  _ destroy  _ him. For good. Forever. Just the thought made Aziraphale’s nails bite into his palm, his eyes prickle. If a hundred years left him despondent, what would  _ forever  _ do to him?

And now this… This death machine that he already seemed to love more than life itself.

“Oh, Crowley… What aren’t you telling me?” Aziraphale whispered to no one. His gaze had drifted far from the book, now resting on the velvet lounge across from him, where Crowley had first shown him those base desires he had kept hidden for God knows how long.

With a sigh, he took a deep drink of his wine. He didn’t feel desire anymore--not really. After a few years of Crowley being gone, back in the late 17th century, he parted with that physical aspect of his desire. Back to being his pristine, agender, angelic self. It didn’t even occur to him anymore, most of the time.

And yet… There were times, like tonight, when Crowley had cajoled him back into the Bentley after the races. Aziraphale had stamped his foot and refused, insisting he would just miracle himself home. But Crowley took him by the hand, touched the small of his back, spoke to him in that low, soft tone just for him. He was weak to it, like some addict tempted.

It was just a simple touch. A simple kindness. But it ignited that… fondness within him. Yes, just a great  _ fondness  _ for Crowley. Nothing more. Nothing to worry about.

Aside from the driving, it had been a very lovely night. Full of easy smiles and laughter. Aziraphale found his eyes closed, imagining Crowley had hugged him goodnight. He imagined he had invited Crowley in for a drink. The demon would have been surprised. They hadn’t been alone, in private, for… centuries. If things were different, he might have teased,  _ Do you think that’s wise, angel?  _ But with a smirk that said he was all for it. Maybe he could have kissed him. Maybe Crowley would have held him. Maybe they could just…

Aziraphale winced and straightened himself in his chair. He took another drink of wine and resolved himself to go back to his book. But it was impossible.

“What is he even  _ doing _ …” Aziraphale asked the familiar book cover, running his thumbs over the embossed script.

Was Crowley  _ trying  _ to signal something to him? Did Crowley even know, himself, what he was doing? He didn’t  _ seem  _ like he was going down that path. If anything, signs pointed toward Crowley being more self destructive. Was that a sign?

Aziraphale didn’t know what to do. The memories and feelings were locked away--except for that memory of hurt. He could forgive Crowley for banishing him, making the choice for him, but he could not forget it. Crowley had shown him the depth of his love for him, and then snatched it away. Off limits. No unauthorized personnel allowed.

The demon giveth and he taketh away.

But something was happening. Something was roiling about in Crowley’s brain. He was becoming a danger to himself. It was time he protected Crowley--not silently, from the sidelines. Not as his distant guardian angel. But by talking to him. Figuring out where this sudden reckless streak came from.

Crowley wasn’t very good at talking. Not about himself. Even when it came to talking about the very First Days, Crowley couldn’t put the words to why he had Fallen. “I didn’t really  _ Fall, _ ” he would say, or, “I just hung around the wrong people…” While true, those empty words were not the Truth.

Crowley probably didn’t think he was acting recklessly at all. But there was something different from the way he casually observed and prodded at the world. Holy water… and now the Bentley… Just how much had Aziraphale failed on his promise that it wouldn’t hurt?

Aziraphale downed the rest of his wine and rubbed at his eyes. So much for a peaceful night. The worst of all--when he had this chat with Crowley, he was fairly certain he would have to get back into the Bentley.


	4. A Nice, Leisurely Drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley takes Aziraphale for a nice drive in the countryside, and a difficult conversation is had.

Crowley and the Bentley were inseparable. Despite Aziraphale’s best efforts to suggest literally any activity that would remove the Bentley from the equation, it proved impossible to avoid getting into the demonic death machine once more. If Crowley was going to pick up another hobby, why couldn’t it be as innocuous as his collection of plants? (Aziraphale was blessed unaware of the tactics Crowley used to keep his broad-leafs so broad and his ferns to fern-y. For Crowley, it was just plain self-care; therapeutic.)

With a shuddering sigh, Aziraphale sank into the Bentley’s leather interior. “Now, I remind you, you said a  _ nice,  _ leisurely drive, Crowley.”

“Yeahhh,” Crowley waved his fingers from the steering wheel. “Would I lie to you?”

“Heavens, please,” Aziraphale begged.

Crowley pulled onto the lane and zipped through London at  _ merely  _ ninety.

Aziraphale clung to his seat and desperately wished to close his eyes. He shuddered to think what mayhem might occur if he wasn’t vigilant in watching the road that Crowley seemed to think would open up before him.

Once they wound their way out of the maze of London, the road did, in fact, open before them. A winding trail over hillock and knoll, green countryside dotted with cottages and long, private drives, not another car for miles and miles. Perhaps Aziraphale was falling into a kind of stockholm syndrome, but ninety didn’t feel quite so fast out here. The windows were down, and the angel realized just how smoggy London had become. The air out here was clear, more pristine than the past thousand years in the city that was more home to him now than Heaven.

Aziraphale adjusted his arm on the sill of the open window and took a deep breath. He couldn’t have sighed in any way other than blissfully.

Crowley glanced over at the angel with a smile. “See? Marvelous thing, this.” He relaxed back in his seat. “Just rubber to the road, and an engine to take you there.”

“I was admiring the scenery,” Aziraphale replied. This obsession… He had been going over what to say to Crowley. How to approach him without making him withdraw, stiffen up, shirk his questions. Truly, a monumental task. Crowley was much more sensitive than he would ever admit. Aziraphale was probably the only being in the entire universe who knew to what extent.

“What drew you to acquire it? What… tempted you?” Aziraphale put a light smile on his face.

Crowley saw through the affected lightness, but figured Aziraphale was trying to angle him to get rid of the Bentley. “Like to keep up with the times,” he said. “Humans always resist change--always thinking this next new thing is gonna be the end of society and moral rectitude as we know it. Thought it’d be a nice addition to my--what’s the opposite of moral rectitude?”

“Deviance?”

“My  _ deviant  _ persona. Least until they all come round and accept it. Then it’s onto the next Great Evil.” Crowley tilted his head thoughtfully. “Television. That’s my bet,” he said with a deep nod.

“It just seems a bit dangerous. Even for you.” Aziraphale was quiet, his words almost taken away by the wind, almost muffled by the finger on his lips.

“Are you still on about that?” Crowley sighed and did his best to grin through annoyance. “I haven’t killed anyone with it. And I’ve got a little guardian angel always worrying on my shoulder…”

“It’s only… It’s only that it feels reckless.”

“Reckless? I’m not a reckless driver.”

“Yes, you  _ are,  _ Crowley! You love this thing so much, yet you whip around London like it’s a race track!”

“I don’t have a reckless bone in my body, angel.”

“ _ Liar. _ What about that thing you asked me for?” Aziraphale didn’t even want to speak of it.

“What thing?” Crowley seemed calm and casual, but the Bentley was picking up speed.

Aziraphale felt the wind whipping through the window and he leaned back from it. He glanced at Crowley and could see the tension in his hand on the steering wheel, though the demon’s gaze remained steady on the road.

“Crowley, stop the car,” Aziraphale said quietly.

“We’re having a nice drive! What are you on about?” Not so calm, not so casual.

The countryside was zipping by at dizzying speeds. Aziraphale thought he might be sick. “Please.”

“We always do what  _ you  _ want to do. What about what I want to do!” Crowley turned a sharp look at Aziraphale. The angel couldn’t tell if he was angry or manic. “I want to take you for a nice drive!” Aziraphale’s eyes darted from Crowley’s face and back to the road and he gasped.

“Crowley, please! Look--”

Crowley snapped his head back and corrected the wheels just in time to avoid a pothole that would surely have upended them. The brakes screeched as he dragged the wheel out of a fishtail and they came to a stop, slanted across the country lane.

Aziraphale caught his breath with a shuddering gasp, his knuckles white where he gripped the door. He sank into the seat, his head falling back as he tried to still his pounding heart with a hand to his chest.

Crowley’s fingers tensed and untensed on the wheel, jaw clenched as he looked straight ahead.

Aziraphale straightened himself and turned to look at Crowley, imploring. “I…”

“Let me get her out of the road,” Crowley muttered. The angel’s look of pity and worry crushed his insides. He drove slowly in silence up to a country lane, and turned off the main road. Cresting a hill, Crowley pulled the Bently onto the grassy edge of the road and reluctantly cut the engine. He slumped against his door like a sulking teenager, chin lifted defiantly on his knuckles.

“Crowley, I’m worried about you.” Aziraphale cut through the quiescent country murmur. The Bentley’s engine made a  _ tic-tic  _ as it started to cool.

“You worry about everything.  _ Except  _ when you’re getting swindled, or putting yourself in danger,” Crowley pointed out.

“Yes, but… recently, your behavior…” He hadn’t meant to start this conversation with Crowley already irritated with him

“What? My behavior, what? You’re going to have to spit it out. I can’t read your mind.”

Aziraphale winced. “Do you really… think it could go… pear-shaped?”

Crowley lifted his head from his knuckles, his brow creased in confusion. “What?”

“Wh-what you said… A while back, in St. James Park… when you asked me for…”

Crowley sank back on his knuckles and looked out the window. “Oh. That.”

“Well? Do you?”

“It could. It always could. Rather be prepared than…”

“You’d rather die like that?” Aziraphale’s voice was thin and pained.

Crowley frowned. “Do you know what they’d do to me?” His tone was cold and unrelenting.

“No, Crowley, I don’t. But…”

“ _ Listen,  _ angel,” Crowley snapped, turning on Aziraphale. “They wouldn’t just lock me up and throw away the key. I’m Fallen. I’m a demon. It doesn’t get any lower than the pits of Hell.” He leaned toward Aziraphale, his hands like claws on the dashboard, on the edge of his seat. “They don’t reprimand you, or strip your rank--they fucking rip your wings off. They take out every little bit that God has cursed us with, your immortal soul, and they roast that on the pits.” The demon bared his teeth, sneering. “And they’ll make you stand in line for the  _ privilege _ .” 

“Holy water would  _ destroy  _ you, Crowley!” Aziraphale cried. Crowley’s ferocity should have terrified him, but he saw it for what it was--an attempt to scare him, to force him to back down. He wouldn’t back down now.

“I’d rather be a steaming pile of ash than let them exact their punishment on me.”

“Why do you choose  _ these _ things to be reckless about?” Aziraphale’s heart ached.

Crowley frowned. Did Aziraphale mean…? He sat back slowly, the leather creaking against his suit. His mind was racing. Aziraphale had never brought it up, not for three hundred years. Sometimes he got that  _ look  _ in his eyes, sure, but they didn’t talk about it, damnit.

And for good reason--it was plain as day. Crowley wasn’t reckless about that because… well, because Aziraphale was involved. Damn himself, sure, but damn Aziraphale? Never. He would go to the ends of the Heaven and Hell to protect Aziraphale. Aziraphale deserved to exist. He was good. Too good for this world, really. The perfect angel. More than that, he was his best--maybe only--friend.

Aziraphale fidgeted in the silence. “If you were destroyed…” His breath caught and his fingers bit into his palms, pressed stiffly against his thighs. “... It… it doesn’t bear thinking about…”

Crowley leaned against the window to hide the pain. “You’d be fine without me,” he drawled. “Prolly better off, not having a demon--”

“No, I wouldn’t, Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted. Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance.

The demon looked shaken, startled by the passion in Aziraphale’s voice. His eyes were steel, as fierce as his flaming sword. Crowley noticed that Aziraphale’s hands were trembling, clenched tight against his legs. He frowned and reached over, placed one of his hands over Aziraphale’s. “Hey…” His fingers wrapped around Aziraphale’s knuckles, plying him to unclench his first.

Aziraphale’s throat tightened as he gingerly released his fist. Shakily, he let Crowley take his hand.

“I’m not going anywhere…” Crowley whispered.

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand. “You promised.”

Crowley ached as he felt Aziraphale’s hand in his. He slipped his fingers between Aziraphale’s. “I promised.” He couldn’t break a promise to Aziraphale.


	5. Too Fast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A misunderstanding leads to hurt on both sides.

They sat in the Bentley for a long time. Holding hands. Watching the storm brew in the falling light as the sun went down.

“I wasn’t planning on using it for--as a… suicide pill,” Crowley said quietly.

Aziraphale dragged his eyes away from the majesty of thick stormheads tumbling on the horizon and looked at Crowley with wide, hopeful eyes. The look was tainted with sadness at the mere thought.

“I  _ wasn’t.  _ I’m not, Aziraphale.” Crowley gave him an imploring look. When that failed to erase that sad lilt to his gaze, Crowley took off his glasses and tossed them on the dash.

Aziraphale managed a small smile and squeezed Crowley’s hand. Crowley never used his name--that alone was almost enough to convince him Crowley meant it. Seeing his bare, reptilian eyes cemented the fact. His gaze drifted down to their hands clasped together. Such an innocent gesture. It meant so much to him.

“I need it for insurance. Like I said.”

“What does that  _ mean,  _ Crowley?” Aziraphale begged.

Crowley was quiet, his brow narrowed over slit-pupiled eyes. His thumb ran over Aziraphale’s, more a nervous gesture than a tender one. “In case… they come after me.”

Aziraphale’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, telegraphed through his wide-eyed stare. “But you’re well-loved…” He shook his head; demons didn’t love, even those who exemplified pure demon-ness. “Your commendations- your work performance- you’ve always…”

“They don’t trust me.”

“Well, of course not, demons don’t…”

Crowley gave him a look that made him drop the thought. He didn’t know what to say. He bit his lip as they lapsed into silence again. It started to rain.

“I… didn’t mean it. When I said I didn’t need you.” Aziraphale said finally. “It’s been eating away at me--”

“Obviously,” Crowley teased with a grin.

Aziraphale smiled and it slayed Crowley. It was that look of utter, mutual understanding. How could an angel and a demon understand each other so implicitly? How did Aziraphale know when to pry into his shell, when Crowley didn’t think twice about being in it? Aziraphale knew he was troubled even before  _ he  _ knew he was troubled. He didn’t think about it. He just went on with his life, carrying this big bundle of self-loathing, self-destructive anger in his chest. He shut out his  _ real  _ desires in favor of his frivolous, easily attained ones. Threatening his plants, driving the Bentley like a maniac, low-key terrorizing society, making other people irritable to vent his own irritations.

“Even if I did…” Aziraphale couldn’t believe he was even considering this. “Just one wrong move, Crowley, and…” his voice cracked. “How would you feel if I asked you for something that would destroy me?” Aziraphale asked pointedly, exhaling in a little huff. He wanted Crowley to understand why it upset him so. “What if I said, ‘Oh, yes, my dear. I’ll get that holy water for you. But only if you promise to give me a little hellfire to consume my eternal soul, should the need arise.’?”

Crowley’s fingers tensed in Aziraphale’s. Oh, angel… He felt as if he had already looked down that path and rejected it. He could hardly meet Aziraphale’s gaze, so full of emotion. When he did, looking very sorry for himself, what he saw wasn’t judgement--but conviction. Aziraphale… meant it. If Crowley was so determined to risk his very existence, Aziraphale would rather have the same guillotine over his head than go on without him.

Something swelled in Crowley, then. That feeling he had buried down, smothered with disdain for his own weakness and desires. Aziraphale felt the same. He had always felt the same, and would accept the risk to be with him. Crowley felt it. He untangled his hand from Aziraphale’s and grabbed the angel by his precious cheeks and kissed him soundly on the lips.

Aziraphale was shocked. Of all things, he had not expected this. Crowley’s lips seared him, lit a fire all anew. He was frozen with an aching pain, overwhelmed by that passion verging on desperation.

He put his hands on Crowley’s chest and pushed him back, pulling his head away against the window. “Crowley, what are you doing?” he whispered, aghast. He saw a streak down Crowley’s cheek. Was he crying?

It took him a moment to find his breath. “If… if it’s all gonna go… go pear-shaped, and you… you can’t bear to… We should make the most of it, shouldn’t we?” His smile was a plea. He tried again to kiss the angel.

“Stop, Crowley.” Aziraphale said firmly, his voice tight as he shut his eyes. 

Seeing the look on Aziraphale’s face, Crowley realized he had misread him. That… wasn’t what he meant. It fell like a pit in his stomach, burning with shame and the horrible realization that he might’ve fucked it all up.

“ _ You’re  _ the one…” Aziraphale still had his hands on Crowley’s chest. He meant to push him back gently, but something inside him shoved Crowley away. The demon was knocked back to the opposite door. “... who put an end to- to  _ that. _ ” He wanted to feel bad when he saw the hurt in Crowley’s eyes, but his own hurt was too great. “Now what?” His voice cracked.

“I’m sorry, angel, I am.” Crowley sat up in his seat, turned fully toward Aziraphale. “I wanted to protect you…”

“Stop making my decisions for me, Crowley. I’m not some child, some simpleton that needs protection.” Lightning caught the dangerous look in Aziraphale’s eyes, and thunder boomed all too close to the car.

Aziraphale wanted to cry. He wanted to hold Crowley. He also wanted to bring holy fire down on him and smite him for playing with his emotions like this, for drudging it all up again. He’d been happy pretending they were just friends. Hadn’t he? His chest ached and he couldn’t bear this anymore.

“I’m going home.” Aziraphale reached for the door.

“Wait.” Crowley said and took Aziraphale by the arm.

Aziraphale tore his arm away. “I’m going home!”

“I’ll take you there. It’s raining.”

Aziraphale couldn’t hide his misty eyes as he stared Crowley down. “No. You… you go too fast for me, Crowley.” The doors unlocked themselves and Aziraphale stumbled out of the Bentley and onto the muddy lane. With a flash of heavenly light, he was gone.


	6. For the World, If He Could

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley races after Aziraphale, sure that he's really fucked it all up this time.

“ANGEL!”

The bookshop door opened as Crowley was about to belt out again. It was pouring rain. Crowley was absolutely soaked.

“Stop screaming outside my bookshop, for goodness sake.” Aziraphale wasn’t ready to see Crowley. He must have driven back to London going 200 to get here so quick.

Crowley just stood there, despondent, getting drenched on the corner of Oxford Lane.

“Get inside!” Aziraphale hissed at him and held open the door.

Crowley staggered numbly up the stairs and into the bookshop. He was shaking.

Aziraphale did what Aziraphales do best--he fussed. “What were you thinking, standing out there in the pouring rain? How did you even get here so fast? The country roads must have been a mess. You’re lucky you didn’t discorporate yourself.” As he nattered on, he shucked off Crowley’s drenched coat and hung it by the door, then took him by the shoulders and marched him to the back room.

“Now, get the fire going, there’s a dear.” Aziraphale stood Crowley in front of the fireplace. “And take off those wet clothes while I get you a blanket.” Aziraphale tottered off to the very back of his shop, where a spiral staircase led up to his little flat.

Crowley was completely numb. He’d really fucked up this time. So much worse than before. With an unenthusiastic snap from the demon, a fire roared in the fireplace. It wasn’t so much a cheery fire. He just stared. He didn’t know what to say. Just…  _ sorry. _ He felt so sorry. Sorry he had ever started this in the first place, sorry he had ever left, sorry he had stayed away so long, sorry he had come back, sorry he had tried so hard to make it not hurt, sorry he had never let it go, sorry…

“Crowley.” Aziraphale was suddenly beside him. “You’re dripping.”

Crowley looked blankly at Aziraphale, then down at himself. He hadn’t even noticed. “Sorry…”

Crowley’s emotions were written plainly across his face. He hadn’t even put his glasses back on. Those golden eyes were brimming with tears. Snakes didn’t cry, but angels did. And what was Crowley, but an angel who drove too fast and got in trouble for asking questions?

Aziraphale could hear in Crowley’s cracked voice that he wasn’t just saying sorry for dripping on his original 18th century wooden floors. He put the blankets he had fetched down on the lounge.

“Honestly, what am I going to do with you?” Aziraphale muttered as stepped up to the drenched demon. He didn’t bother asking before he started unbuttoning Crowley’s waistcoat. The demon sniffled as Aziraphale peeled the wet layer off. Then the angel loosened his wet tie.

“Leave it,” Crowley said thickly. “I’ll hang myself with it.”

“Oh, shut up.” Aziraphale slapped one of Crowley’s hands away. He slipped Crowley’s red tie free and hung it by his waistcoat on the guard by the fire. With a tight little sigh, Aziraphale began working at the buttons on Crowley’s shirt, trying very hard not to think about it. He was still mad at Crowley--that helped.

“I’m so sorry, angel…”

“I know, dear.” The crack in Crowley’s small voice went straight to his heart. Aziraphale’s eyes were unfocused, making a point not to look too much at Crowley’s chest as he peeled his sopping shirt from his shoulders. He stepped away then, putting the shirt carefully over the guard on the opposite side of the fire. “Now get those wet pants off--shoes  _ and  _ socks. I’ll bring you some cocoa.” 

Aziraphale took a deep breath as he turned the corner to the kitchenette just by the stairs. Crowley looked absolutely pitiful. A hollow shell of all that anger and rage that had got them cock-eyed in the country lane. And serves him right, thinking he could dictate everything and just run off whenever he liked-- No… No, Aziraphale’s heart ached to see his friend in such a sorry state. But it wasn’t that easy for him! He couldn’t just… turn it on and off! It had taken him years-- _ a century _ \--to finally feel alright again, and even then…

“Can I help?” Crowley stood in the doorway, barefoot and draped in a massive, fluffy red quilt.

Aziraphale jumped. “Crowley--really…” he gasped, exasperated. He looked at the poor thing, hunched in a quilt like he was somehow taking up too much space anywhere. With a sigh, he managed to smile. “There’s not much you can do to help me make cocoa, but… you can stay right there, if you want.”

As if permission were the only thing he needed to exist, Crowley shuffled toward the doorframe and leaned against it. His eyes never left Aziraphale.

The angel went about putting some milk in a pot, and onto the stove.

“I’m sorry I never asked.”

“About what?” Aziraphale busied himself looking in the cabinets for cocoa. He knew exactly where it was, but he wanted to keep himself distracted.

“About kissing you. Ever.” Crowley sniffed. “Even the first time, I never asked.”

Aziraphale shut a cabinet a bit too hard. “No apologies necessary.” His voice was feather-light.

“Oh, c’mon, Aziraphale…” Crowley moaned. “Don’t give me that bollocks.”

“What would you like me to say, Crowley?” The angel turned. When upset, his default was composure.

“Talk to me.  _ Please. _ ” Crowley begged, tugging the quilt tighter around himself.

“Why should  _ I  _ be the one to talk now?” Aziraphale demanded. He never raised his voice, but the way his words were so tightly laced together spoke louder than any volume. “You didn’t give me a- a word in  _ at all  _ when you left! You didn’t give me a choice, or- or ask how  _ I  _ felt about it. You didn’t even care.” Aziraphale turned back to the stove. He couldn’t look at poor Crowley now. He’d never seen Crowley so vulnerable.

“Of course I cared! That’s why I left.”

“That’s a shitty excuse.” After a breath, “Excuse my French.”

“I… thought it wouldn’t hurt…” Crowley sounded incredulous with himself as he turned on his shoulder, pressing his spine against the doorway. “I thought… ‘ahhh, I roped this poor angel into this… he never even…’”

“That’s the problem, Crowley! You think I get stuck in  _ my  _ head. What about you?” Aziraphale said sharply to the stovetop, gripping the countertop tightly. “The only reason I get stuck in my head is because--”

“I love you.” Crowley had slumped down to the floor, a big pile of red quilt with a Crowley head and bare feet sticking out.

Aziraphale stared at the milk as it started to simmer, his mouth hanging open. He stared so long, he almost forgot to turn it off before it bubbled over. He snapped back to reality long enough to flip off the switch on the stove.

Of all the things Crowley could have said... 

“You… stupid…” Aziraphale couldn’t find the words. He went to Crowley, huddled on the floor.

“I know,” Crowley croaked with a weak, apologetic smile. “Tell me about it.”

Aziraphale reached down with both hands. “Get up,” he whispered, warmth glowing through the conflicted smile on his face. Crowley hesitated, like he’d rather just stay a lump forever, then took Aziraphale’s hand and let him drag him to his feet. The angel wrapped him in a tight hug. A hug so tight, Crowley couldn’t actually move his arms. The demon satisfied himself with just putting his head on the angel’s shoulder. He felt a sob welling up in his chest, and he choked it down. Just this moment. Just this.

Aziraphale let him go in stages, and when they finally faced each other, Crowley knew Aziraphale wasn’t ready. The angel was misty-eyed and smiling, but not ready.

“Do you know what you put me through?” Aziraphale asked, a twinge in his smile.

“No.” Crowley was full of sorrow. “I’m a demon,” he lamented, overly dramatic and moping. “All I know how to do is cause pain, not  _ feel… _ ”

“Oh, hush up.” Aziraphale’s brow narrowed. He reached up and touched Crowley’s clammy cheek, wiping at the obvious trails tears had left there. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve been crying.”

“Have not. It’s the rain.” He sniffed.

“I won’t lie to you, Crowley. You’ve put me through… hell.” Aziraphale exhaled short and to the point. “I never know what it’s going to be with you.” His hand fell away.

“Not like you.” Crowley pulled the quilt around himself, an extension of Aziraphale’s embrace. “Always… happy and smiling… with your books and your crepes and your… frivolous miracles,” he cracked a smile. “Always so… good.”

Crowley must have thought it was easy for him. So easy to live in the light and glory of God and goodness. It might have been, were it not for a certain demon woven throughout his existence; his forever companion of fate. It had taken him centuries to begin to come to terms with it--that he needed Crowley. And it was desperately obvious that Crowley needed him. A tether in his confused existence. Something to ground him, something to call… home. He wasn’t like any other demon, nor was he anywhere near an angel. He was just… Crowley.

But Aziraphale couldn’t just avert course and act like Crowley hadn’t burned him before. What was to say his mood, his convictions, wouldn’t swing wildly again? Aziraphale cared for Crowley, but he was unwilling to be victim to the demon’s whims. Not like that. Not again.

“I…” Aziraphale began, but then stopped himself short and let his shoulders sink. He put on that everything-is-fine smile and clasped his hands. “Cocoa’s ready.”

Crowley stopped Aziraphale before he could bustle off. Long fingers took hold of the lapel of Aziraphale’s waistcoat, a silent request to stay. His naked wrist looked so slender, vulnerable poking out from the pile of quilt huddled around him. “What is it? What were you going to say?” Aziraphale couldn’t believe how quietly Crowley spoke. “I’m listening.”

Aziraphale looked away, wistful. He didn’t want to say anything. He wanted to take Crowley’s hand and lead him back to the lounge, pull him into his arms and kiss away all that sadness. He wanted to skip the hard conversations and the what-ifs and  _ believe  _ that Crowley wouldn’t change his mind, wouldn’t hurt him, again. He wanted to join Crowley under that red quilt and warm his trembling skin against his own. He’d wanted it for a long time. He’d forgotten it for a long time.

Crowley studied him. His eyes were wide and sad, but his brow creased and heavy as he tried with all his might to read the angel’s mind. Damn that enigmatic smile.

Aziraphale touched his hand, removing it from his lapel. “I need… time.” It was so much harder to say that four letter word. Crowley was too impulsive, too… reckless right now.

The storm on Crowley’s brow lifted and he withdrew his hand. “Oh.” The hand disappeared back under the quilt. It wasn’t the  _ ideal  _ answer, but… it was certainly better than, ‘You really fucked up this time, Crowley. It’s over.’ Heaven, it was  _ way  _ better than that. It meant that maybe… maybe someday he could make it up to Aziraphale. For everything--for all of it. For the world, if he could.

Aziraphale’s hand lingered where Crowley’s had been. It felt awful, keeping Crowley at arm’s length.

“Well…” Crowley murmured. Aziraphale braced for Crowley’s self-deprecating spiral, for his fury and fire. The demon smiled. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end of part three, kittens.
> 
> Thanks for continuing on this angst-ridden path with me!! Maybe... just maybe... we'll get our happy ending?
> 
> (It's ineffable.)
> 
> The series continues on Monday with part four: Springtime in the Blitz!
> 
> Follow me on Twitter to get up to the minute updates: @vol_ctrl

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be posting chapters on a M W F schedule. To get up to the minute updates, follow me on Twitter: @vol_ctrl


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